


Takes One To

by clarityhiding



Series: Second Great Depression [1]
Category: Bandom, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-28
Updated: 2008-07-28
Packaged: 2017-10-21 17:53:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/227958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clarityhiding/pseuds/clarityhiding
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Though primarily a card man now, Jon actually started out with coins.</em> Prequel to All Laid Out. Part of the Second Great Depression universe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Takes One To

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** Last I checked, these boys were musicians, not con men, so. Fiction! Complete fiction. WOO.
> 
> Thanks to cinderfallen for another great beta job ♥~
> 
> This is part of a series of ficlets very, very, _very_ loosely based on the movie _Paper Moon_. Exceedingly loosely based. Just so you know.

_It takes one to know one._

 

Though primarily a card man now (card shark, whispers a quiet voice at the back of his subconscious, though he doesn't like that term; doesn't like the predatory tone of it, the parasitic history attached to it), Jon actually started out with coins.

There wasn't much for a kid under the age of ten to do in Chicago. Ten was the lowest age you could start working in the state of Illinois, and then only if your family absolutely could not do without the income. If they could, you had to wait until thirteen. Jon had two older brothers and both his parents had been in good health, so he'd been able to wait until sixteen to join the workforce. He probably could have waited until he was eighteen, but sixteen was when he'd left home to see the world, so that was when he started supporting himself the best way he knew how, with card tricks and sleight of hand.

He was pretty sure that when Bob Bryar had taken an eight-year-old Jon Walker aside and showed him how to do various coin tricks (French drop, Muscle Pass, Miser's Dream—), he hadn't planned on starting the boy on the path to a life of crime. Not that Jon really thought of himself as a criminal—criminals were people who mugged and murdered, took without giving anything in return, while Jon gave people a show for their money. They might not have known they were paying for it, they might not have approved of the fee he charged, but he never took without giving something back. Well. Except for when he picked pockets, but really, he only did that when he was down on his luck. Or someone looked like a particularly plump and unsuspecting patsy. Jon had principles.

Coin tricks were more difficult than those that involved cards, though few realized it. Cards looked fancy and complicated because they had suits, numbers, pictures, while coins were just... coins. Round bits of metal. More people were impressed by cards than they were by coins, and besides, people tended to watch coins a tad too closely for Jon's taste these days.

Bob had taught him coin tricks, but everything past that, Jon'd had to learn on his own—from library books and what remained of the internet, or through sheer trial and error. Twelve years worth of practice had given Jon excellent results. Jon had run into a few other practicers of prestidigitation over the years and he had yet to find one with the same diversity of knowledge as he possessed, one with the same level of skill. It wasn't conceit, it was just fact, plain and simple. Bryar might still surpass Jon when it came to coins, but Bryar'd probably been fooling around with coins for longer than Jon'd been alive.

Being a pickpocket was something Jon fell into when he was fourteen, fifteen. It wasn't something he'd set out to become; the skill was just one of those needed to execute a number of the tricks he'd been teaching himself to perform, and it had simply been a matter of just... not making the missing item reappear. Not letting on that it had even left the pocket, purse, bag, backpack of the mark in first place. It was surprising how willing a person was to believe they'd simply misplaced an item rather than admit that someone had gotten the better of them. Experience taught Jon that it was easiest to make money through straight-out thievery sometimes, though he honestly did try and limit it to only those times when he couldn't support himself otherwise, to those people who could afford to lose the money.

It was pure bad luck that led Jon to decide that the eager, fresh-faced boy with the red-framed glasses would be an easy mark. Jon hadn't had a decent meal in nearly three days, a real shower for even longer, and if his luck didn't pick up soon then he was going to pass the point of "lovable traveler" and be well on his way to "suspicious vagrant" (never a good category to fall into, even when you actually were otherwise behaving yourself). The kid's clothes were in good condition, probably bought new, and his coat looked to be real wool. It certainly didn't look like he couldn't afford to have a run in with Jon. Plus, he looked like he'd only just got in from the country, it wasn't likely he'd even think to connect the friendly stranger he bumped into to his missing wallet later on.

All looked to be going fine and dandy, and Jon was already disappearing into the crowd when a hand landed on his shoulder and a pleasant voice said, "Nice trick. I'll have my wallet back now, though, please."

It would have been lying to say that Jon wasn't shocked. The last time he'd been caught doing a simple lift like this one, he'd been fourteen. He was twenty now. Jon was _good_ at what he did. "Excuse me?" he asked politely, making sure to cultivate a look of helpful confusion on his face.

The kid rolled his eyes. "My wallet. I'd like it back, please."

Jon shook his head. "Look, man," he said, "I don't know what you're talking about. Sorry."

Tilting his head back, the kid studied Jon for a minute, face blank. "Alright," he said finally. "Alright, if that's how you want to play it, we'll do it that way. C'mon, I think there's a diner around the corner—" He grabbed Jon's arm, dragging him down the street and into a tiny, hole-in-the-wall burger joint. Inside, the kid sat down in a booth and gestured for Jon to sit in the bench across from him before turning to the harassed-looking waitress and ordering two cups of coffee. "Don't worry," he said after she'd left, "I'm paying. It's always so tacky to have to take the mark's wallet out right in front of him. I'll be kind and save you from committing that social passé."

"Look, I really don't—"

"You can drop the act already," snapped the kid as he unbuttoned his coat and pulled it off. Underneath, he had on a grey sweater vest over a navy blue polo shirt, and all Jon could think was that he had to have heard the kid wrong, because despite the kid's tone and words, everything about him screamed "Good Boy," right down to the corduroy pants, a little worn at the knee, but still serviceable. "I'm not going to call the cops on you. Partly because I have my own reasons to avoid them, but mostly because I'm not mad at you. If anything, I'm impressed—that has to have been the slickest bit of prestidigitation I've ever witnessed." He grinned wildly.

Oh, thought Jon, one of _those_. Kids who'd read a few books with titles like _Magic Revealed!_ and thought they were fingersmiths. Only. This kid claimed to have reasons to avoid the law, was sharp enough to not only pick up right away on the fact that his wallet was missing, but also zeroed in on Jon as the one who'd done it. Jon had taken a chance when he left home at sixteen, taken the chance that he could make it better out on his own than by staying at home like his brothers, hoping that things would turn back around, that this year would be the year that the world economy stabilized and everything went back to normal (whatever normal was—Jon was a Depression baby, born after the Crash; to him, the current state of affairs _was_ normal). So far he'd been right. He decided to take another chance now, and leaned back in his seat.

"You're no pickpocket," Jon said as he dropped the bewildered look and swept a critical eye over the kid. "You're dressed too well. And no pickpocket worth his salt carries his wallet in an outside pocket, they know better." Pulling out the nicked wallet, Jon slid it across the table.

"He does if it's his dummy wallet," the kid said, his grin widening. He picked up the wallet, opened it, and pulled out a driver's license before tossing the wallet back to Jon. "Go ahead and keep it. You swiped it fair and square, and anyway, it's only got a twenty and a few ones. Just wanted the ID back; it's kinda hard to get hold of decent fake ones."

Jesus. Either this kid talked a lot of shit, or he was working with much higher stakes—not even Jon bothered with fake IDs. They were too hard to get, these days. "Thanks," Jon said, returning the wallet to his pocket. He thought for a minute, then held out his hand. "I'm Jon," he said, smiling slightly. "Usually I'm more for card tricks, but it's been slim pickings lately, so..."

"Hey, no, man, I totally hear you—I've been there," the kid said, shaking Jon's hand. "Well, not really—I'm fuck-all at lifting things off of people. At least, doing it without them noticing." He released Jon's hand and smiled. "I'm Brendon, by the way."

Brendon, it turned out, was a missionary turned confidence man. "I don't think I was ever a good missionary," he admitted to Jon as he stirred an atrocious amount of cream and sugar into his coffee. "Even right at the start. I just kept losing faith instead of finding it. Started grifting when I ran out of money and found that relying on the kindness of strangers was a shitty and useless way of doing things."

In the five months since then, Brendon had been a busy boy, Jon learned. "It was an easy start," Brendon explained. "A lot of it's basic psychology, and pretty much every grift boils down to a scam that requires either a one- or two-man one. Everything else is just decoration." Where Jon had primarily learned sleight of hand from Bryar and reading various how-to books, Brendon had worked out the art of the con all on his own through a lot of trial and error. "Confidence tricks are easy as long as you're personable," Brendon insisted. "You're just playing on people's greed. Prestidigitation—that's _real_ art, moving at just the right speed, keeping the punters distracted just the right amount."

"You don't ever feel guilty? I mean, going from missionary to con man—that's a pretty big leap," Jon observed.

"Can't fool an honest man," Brendon said with a shrug. "And grifting, it's not all that different from religion when you get down to it. Both sell a pack of lies tied up in a pretty bow. I just promise more immediate gratification."

They finished their coffee, and following Brendon outside, Jon learned that the kid was not just any old con man—he was a con man with a car. It was an ancient, beat-up 1984 Toyota Camry, but it had been converted over to the new system before the Crash hit. "Metal frame and bumper. They stopped making them like this way back before the Crash," Brendon said with a hint of pride, patting the top of the car. "It'll stand up to almost anything, plus it's got solar panels _and_ an alcohol engine, so I can go pretty much anywhere in the country."

"Nice," Jon said enviously. He had to depend on walking and hitchhiking. It was a blasted nuisance that they didn't have the convenience of trains like back during the First Depression. The railroads had suffered from neglect during the prosperous nineties; by the time that anyone thought to try and convert them over to one of the new systems of energy, there had been nothing left worth converting.

"You could come with me," Brendon blurted out suddenly. He grinned and nervously rubbed the back of his head, messing up his carefully combed hair. "I mean, I wouldn't mind a second driver, and, hell, if you stuck with me long enough I might actually have a chance of learning how you grabbed my wallet, which would be pretty fucking awesome."

Having a ride would be really nice, Jon thought. He could see more places, meet new people. Get out of town faster, if need be. "I don't run cons," Jon warned Brendon. "I do card tricks and stuff. Find the Lady, the shell game—that sort of thing."

Brendon laughed. "Yeah, right. Find the Lady is just another con, and anyway, you pick pockets too. Don't try and make out like you're any more honest than I am, Jon—you aren't going to fool anybody. Won't fool me, at least."

Jon grinned. "Well, as long as that's understood," he said. A quiet mew interrupted him, and a small, grey head poked out of the pocket of Jon's coat. Brendon raised an eyebrow, and Jon gave a somewhat sheepish smile. "...so, uh. You're not allergic to cats, are you? Because Clover goes where I go."

"Awesome," Brendon said, carefully reaching down to lightly scratch under the kitten's chin. "I've always wanted a mascot."


End file.
